


The Taste of Metheglin

by fadeverb



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 11:10:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6151762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadeverb/pseuds/fadeverb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Chancellor has been arrested, after that failed attempt at a coup, and Nurevis wanders the halls of court like a ghost. None of the other courtiers will even meet his gaze anymore.</p>
<p>No one except Tethimar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taste of Metheglin

When Osmer Nurevis Chavar is cleared of complicity in his father's treason, no one comes to pick him up. The guards release him into the hallways of the Untheileneise Court in much the way he used to toss fish back in the water, when they were too small to bother keeping. He has not been fishing in nearly a decade--it is more of a child's sport than a man's--and still the image sticks with him as he walks back to the apartments his father keeps. Kept. Was kept in, perhaps, but his father is not there, under guard or otherwise, when Nurevis arrives.

He slips through the door without anyone to open it for him, goes to his bedroom, and has no idea what to do. What does the little fish do when it was tossed away, still bleeding from the hook? Does it rejoice at the mercy of the fishermen, or curse them for leaving it wounded?

It's nonsense. Fish, unlike men, have no desires or thoughts. They simply do the sorts of things fish do, just as horses and quail and oak trees all follow their respective natures. Nurevis sits in an armchair, alone in the room, staring at the door.

When his uncle arrives to take control of matters, some hours later, Nurevis is still trying to decide what direction he ought to swim.

#

It takes Nurevis three days to work up the courage to leave the apartments. When he does, courage drives him somewhat less than anger does. Viscount Chavel has all the ruthless nature Nurevis's father does (did? does? the verbs are escaping him) and none of that man's graces. They cannot exchange a civil word with each other; after the second round of hectoring, Nurevis no longer tries, either. There is no dealing with that man, and no living with him, and Nurevis would rather brave the stares of his fellow courtiers than spend one more hour in those apartments with his uncle.

There are no stares.

No one will look at him at all.

Nurevis walks the halls of court like a ghost. All the ghosts of stories are wicked or wronged, or both in succession, and he cannot decide which he is. Surely not wicked, for he has never committed a treasonous act in his life. On this, everyone of any importance must agree, or they would never have let him loose. And yet not wronged, for no one has done anything to him which they should not. It is the right of his uncle to scold a nephew as he pleases. (And it is not as if the man ever strikes him. That would require a more personal anger than the viscount has ever exhibited in his direction.) It is appropriate for the guards to arrest the son of a man who attempted a coup against the emperor, and for them to release him in turn.

And how have any of the courtiers wronged him? They may associated with whomever they please. They are not pleased to associate with him anymore. If a ghost is a reminder of inevitable mortality, he is a reminder of what all their disloyal thoughts could mean if taken to certain conclusions. Every courtier who has once thought to himself, "How could that hobgoblin be our emperor!" or whispered to another, "His nephew speaks more gracefully, while not yet an adult," or said loudly at a party that the old emperor would never approve... Every last one of them can see where that leads.

Perhaps there are even courtiers who have never entertained a disloyal thought. Even they have no reason to meet his gaze. He is a reminder of what the people around them might be thinking. Best not to touch any of that.

Nurevis fancies that he ought to have a song of warning, or a voice of woe, to fill out the ghostly role. He has neither. He spends as long as he can bear simply moving from one part of court to another, to see if anyone will speak with him.

His oldest and best friend is Dach'osmer Bremet, a very minor lord of a very wealthy house. They once joked that as sons of their respective fathers, they could ride horses down the palace halls while singing bawdy songs, and receive no worse than a scolding.

It wasn't true, and they both knew it. It was a good joke, though, at the time. A little acknowledgment of what rank and connections could do for them, especially when sitting through yet another stultifying court event for the sake of their better-placed fathers.

Bremet sees Nurevis approach and turns his back, raises his voice in a sudden story for the courtiers near him. Something about hunting quail. Nurevis knows that story well, suspects his name will be edited out of this account.

Nurevis walks back into the apartments his uncle has taken over, and wishes he were a ghost in truth. He could speak his mind, then.

#

The contents of the apartments are being winnowed. Pages are the first to go; the two boys who ran messages about are returned to their parents, where they may be sent out to more illustrious houses for this taste of the court life. Or perhaps they will be bundled home as well, as tainted by association as Nurevis is. He knew neither of them well, and hardly misses them when they disappear. To whom would he sent messages?

Next are the servants. A few very old servants are pensioned off, packed back to rural estates where they can sit in cottages for the rest of their natural lives, eking out a living on a few pence a day. It is a sort of kindness, or kind enough that none of those offered the pension refuse. Most of the rest are simply discharged from their duties. They will find work, or they won't. It is not any of his business, nor any of his uncle's concern.

Nurevis writes letters of recommendation for each of them that asks. Not many ask. His name may be as much a black mark as it is a recommendation, sitting at the end of each letter, but what else can he offer? They'll use the letters as they see fit.

There goes his valet, and there goes the groom who minded their horses. He knew those two better than he knew some of his friends, and so he doesn't ask if they're glad to escape the sinking fortunes of the Chavada. He would rather not see them lie to him.

When Viscount Chavel brings in a hard-eyed woman to begin sorting through the clothing, Nurevis flees to the halls again. They have not even reached his room yet, and he cannot watch these strangers, familial or otherwise, hold up his father's clothes and consider the value of each garment. He strides past couriers without even watching to see if they will acknowledge him.

This is a lie. He is paying attention, every time. (They turn away from him, most times. A few will stare, now. Or bend a head towards their companions to make a comment he is not meant to hear.) He cannot keep his ears up anymore, and it is still better than thinking about his father.

He has been thinking about his father since being arrested, when they told him why.

It would be pleasant to believe that his father kept him out of the plot on account of paternal concern. If anything went awry (as something clearly did, and Nurevis cannot help but think his father did not plan any of this very well) then none of the blame would fall on the rest of the Chavada, as indeed it has not. What a pretty picture that would draw, of affection and caution.

Nurevis knows his father too little and too well to believe this. Chavar was not affectionate, and was not cautious. (Nurevis assumes his father has not acquired either quality since the failure of the coup, so there is a verb tense correction again: Chavar is not affection, and is not cautious.) There has always been enough money for whatever Nurevis wished to acquire, so long as he maintained a helpful, amiable presence at court. When there were sons of the emperor in court, he was encouraged to make friends with them; when a new emperor came to court, of age with him, well, there was encouragement in turn. 

There has never been much more communication than this between them. His father gives instructions. Nurevis carries them out, or finds ways to evade, bend, subvert those instructions. If he is being honest with himself--and for one rare moment of standing alone in a room full of people, he intends to be so--he must admit that his father never much cared for him. He was left out of the plot because Lord Chancellor Chavar would not think of his son as someone useful in grand political matters, as opposed to frivolous political details.

"The younger Chavar," says a man nearby, and Nurevis supposes, for a moment, that he is overhearing a conversation pitched too loud. Except that the man continues, "How unexpected to see you here. Does your uncle hold up well, with all these recent difficulties?"

He could damn near weep with relief. Someone has insulted him directly, instead of whispering behind his back. It feels like coming back from the dead.

Nurevis executes a picture-perfect bow, appropriate to their difference in station. Dach'osmer Eshevis Tethimar is the son of a duke, and Nurevis is the son of a viscount's brother. They are dressed not much differently, in the grander pattern of court fashions: as men more young than established, more interested in fashion than tradition, more deep-pocketed than stingy. Tethimar is far more handsome--he is known for this, almost as much as he is known for his political action--but Nurevis gave up on competing in that area years ago. One must deal as best one can with what lineage and nature have dealt out.

"Matters proceed apace," Nurevis says, as blandly as he is able. It is not witty or cutting. All his wit has been packed away, and would be sold with the clothing and furniture if his uncle could find a way.

"Edrehasivar must be heartened," Tethimar says, smooth as silk and far more expensive, "to see that not all the Chavada have turned against him. You were a friend to him, were you not?"

"We would not so presume," Nurevis says. He does not presume. He does not even assume, anymore. The emperor could have summoned him to demand a personal declaration of loyalty, or to offer--well. What does it matter? The emperor has not summoned him. The emperor was always more interested in the entertainment than the host, at those parties. So be it. The emperor may like whatever he damn well likes.

There is one of those disloyal thoughts that he knows better than to voice.

"That must be for the best," Tethimar says. "Presumption can lead a man into dangerous territory."

Nurevis excuses himself from the conversation, and flees. He is quite certain that the laugh he hears, on reaching the door, is for his cowardice. Cowardly Nurevis Chavar, who can't endure the lightest mockery.

Better a coward than a traitor.

Right?

#

The apartments are nearly bare of furniture. There are two beds left, in two bedrooms, and a handful of older chairs. A table for eating at and a desk where Viscount Chavel bends over receipts, deeds, all the paperwork he must consult for untangling what is left of Chavar's fortunes.

Very little is left of those. Everything that was not a Chavada holding has been forfeit to the crown, and sorting bits of property into one bucket or another, Forfeit and Not Forfeit, will take days yet. Weeks, perhaps. This might go faster if Chavel asked for his nephew's help. Or if Nurevis offered his uncle any help, which he has not. He is not eager to see whether his horses are being given to the Drazhada directly, or sold to shore up the Chavada. Until his uncle asks, he will keep his own counsel. What he owned is gone beyond recovery, regardless.

"This entire place is made of poison," Chavel says, his pen scratching across the paper. "It would have taken a stronger man than Uleris to keep his principles here."

"To be sure," Nurevis says. He flips a newspaper page. Those cost little enough that even his uncle has not stopped him from purchasing more. The editors of this paper--the most traditional, somber, respectable newspaper produced in all of Cetho, and still barely tolerated by his father--are still reeling with shock and outrage over the attempted coup. To think that someone they praised so highly could commit such an act!

They perform outrage in the text the way courtiers perform mourning when some member of the emperor's family, little known and little liked, has died. They knew Chavar as poorly as Nurevis knew, oh, the old emperor's nohecharei, to pick an example. Otherwise they might not be so surprised at what happened.

Nurevis told the Witnesses that he was surprised, but what he meant by that was, _I didn't know he would do that, exactly; still, it's exactly the sort of thing he would do._ Which wouldn't have been wise to say, and Nurevis has at least half the subtlety that his father has always lacked.

Less ambition, though. It's probably for the best. He would have nothing to do with a heart full of ambition now.

There is a knock at the door to the receiving room. Nurevis gets up to answer it before his uncle can tell him to so. There used to be a servant who did nothing but answer the door in fine style, and manage any messages left while the Chavada of court were away; she was dismissed two days ago.

The man standing there is dressed in Tethimada livery, and looks more soldier than messenger. He sneers when he bows, as if the expression and motion are joined to each other. "For Osmer Nurevis Chavar," he says, offering a letter, and implying in that motion that he has no idea who Nurevis is.

Nurevis reads the letter in the receiving room, while the messenger stands waiting. It is, impossibly, an invitation to dinner. There is no reason why a man like Eshevis Tethimar would desire the company of one so disgraced as Nurevis. Even his uncle has received no invitations since arriving at court, except one grudging offer from his wife's kin. (That was turned down on the excuse of being far too busy for entertainment, and Nurevis is sure they were relieved to not have the man at their table for even one night.) No one has sent him so much as an anonymous note of sympathy since the arrest.

Does he believe that Tethimar means this invitation kindly? Oh, he is not such a fool as that. Yet anything is better than another evening spent locked in with his uncle. Anything that shows there are people in this court who will acknowledge he exists. If they mock him to his face, they will at least be looking him in the eyes again.

"Certainly," he tells the messenger, "we will be there."

#

All of Tethimar's servants wear well-made Tethimada livery. All of them move more like soldiers than servants. Or more like bandits, if Nurevis had to name the profession they have been drawn from. The court is still unsettled by what Chavar and Sheveän did, and some courtiers laugh more loudly than usual, while others keep their voices low. The Tethimada seem to be responding with a show of force. Let no one attempt to attack them so foolishly as the emperor was attacked: they are prepared.

Nurevis cannot imagine combat breaking out in the Untheileneise Court, but it has been a month for the unimaginable. He puts on his best court smile, and remembers when he would have had something clever to say about all of this. That time period lies on the other side of a grille pulled across the past. Perfectly visible. Entirely unreachable.

What else is on the other side of that grille? So many things. The world has tilted very slightly on its axis, and thrown him across a dividing line. Everyone he knew and everything he loved has been barred from him. And so when he realizes that there is no one else here but Tethimar, no audience for the mockery, he keeps his chin up, ears up, and makes no comment on the oddity. The time for changing his own destiny is long past. His father made sure of that.

Dinner is excellent. Nurevis would like to claim that he doesn't notice, having so many things to distract and distress him, but he does. He has always enjoyed a good meal, as much as a good hunt, and the two join together well. And Tethimar is--charming. Surprisingly so. Not in the way Nurevis has found sweet-tempered young women and amiable young men charming, but the man is a lively conversationalist. They begin with a discussion of hunting, and this wanders into matters of land rights, border disputes, a story of when Tethimar chased barbarian raiders for two days and two nights without stopping in the war some ten years back.

The metheglin does not flow so rapidly that Nurevis fails to notice when the conversation moves into political matters. He has spent the last few years managing political conversations at his parties, or keeping such conversations from occurring at all when they would be inconvenient, and he will be damned before he misses a cue like that. His smile remains pleasant, and he lets Tethimar discuss politics as the man likes.

Chavar called Dach'osmer Tethimar a political malcontent, and had many comments about the necessity and burden of appeasing that entire region, lest they rise up in outright revolt. The irony is not lost on Nurevis now. All the same, the purpose of this eludes him. He has no political weight for Tethimar to attempt to leverage, had very little even before his father was disgraced. (Disgraced himself. Brought his house into disgrace. A transitive verb, however it is applied.) Nurevis is not sure what he is offering Tethimar, beyond an audience, and surely the man can find a more reputable audience easily.

Two weeks ago, he would have politely avoided the invitation. Or at the very least, he would have been given enough information to avoid it once he realized the man wanted to speak with him alone. Now he is trapped, and baffled, and painfully grateful for the attention. It is a bad combination, and he would drain his cups to dull his growing anxiety, were he not trying to keep his wits about him. For whatever good that can do.

They have reached the topic of what is owed to nobles by the crown. Very little of this discussion involves what nobles ought to pay in return, and Nurevis feels he might not have noticed that imbalance before he began inviting the emperor to parties. It is not, precisely, that he has become any more attached to the ruling house than he was before; he is only more aware of that house as being made of people who might incline in one direction or another, depending on what they witness or desire. Varenechibel was as distant and unshakeable as the roofs of the palace itself. One might as well have talked about what one owed to the moon, or the sky. Edrehasivar can pine after an opera singer, and look all too grateful for help with conversational difficulties.

Not all that grateful, though, is he?

That is not a comforting line of thought, and Nurevis finds he has drained his cup after all.

Tethimar smiles across the table at him, and says, "Do you feel you have received what you are owed?"

This morning a messenger arrived, returning the full sum Nurevis had paid for an as yet unweaned colt. The dam is owned by a man Nurevis would have called a close friend, two weeks ago. There was no communication with the return of the funds. (Why would there be? The contract was verbal. There were no documents to fling back in his face.) He sets his hand in his lap, where he will not be tempted to reach carelessly for the cup again, as a servant is filling it even now. "A broad and philosophical question," he says. "First we would have to know what we deserve."

"What your father had before you," Tethimar says carelessly. "That is how it goes."

That is not careless at all. That is a statement as bold as a drawn sword. Nurevis cannot affect the same casual voice, but he says, "By that measure, we find ourself inconvenienced at the moment. Perhaps it is a test of character."

"In some parts of the lands where we grew up," Tethimar says, "there is a custom meant to test character. A week before reaching adulthood, boys are taken several miles from home, with nothing but a loop of rope, a loaf of bread, and a knife. If they are seen by anyone before the week is up, or return home early, they are accounted to be no proper men. Of course, some never return at all." He lifts his cup. It is an intricate creation of glass and gold, and Nurevis used to have a set almost like it. Gone now, of course. "They used to brand those who failed the test, so that everyone would see their shame, but the custom has fallen out of favor in modern times. A pity, that. Some men these days are so soft." He has a gulp of his drink, and sets the cup back down. "Don't you think so?"

Nurevis sees the answers he can give laid before him like a path splitting in the forest, his horse barreling towards it and a decision to be made in an instant. Sycophantic, adversarial, non-committal. He likes none of these options, and if he does not choose one, he will hesitate too long, which is an answer in itself. "We think of such things very seldom," he says. "What difference does it make, compared to wealth or title?"

Tethimar rises to his feet. "The world bends to those who have the strength to push it about as they will," he says. Nurevis finds himself scrambling up as well, a little slowed by what he's been drinking. "How else would you regain what you're owed? By asking prettily?"

Nurevis is forming a response, something politic that will lead to a natural extraction from this conversation, when Tethimar grabs him by the collar and shoves him up against a wall.

"You look very much like your father," Tethimar observes, as if he always holds his dinner guests so. Nurevis gasps, face pressed against the wall, and finds he cannot do more than twitch against the hand at the back of his neck holding him there. The man is a war hero, isn't he? And heroism in war comes from not losing. "Are you as much of a fool as he was? Look at what he did, given all the power and influence at his disposal."

"We had no part of that," Nurevis says. He has wanted to say this to every friend who turned a back to him, and the only person he can say it to now was never a friend. It will do exactly as much good here as it would have there.

"No," Tethimar says. "You haven't even that much accomplishment. You have nothing left, and no one ever taught you how to seize what you were owed." His breath is hot against Nurevis's ears. "Who listens to you now that your father is disgraced?"

No one. Absolutely no one. Neither friend nor family, and after that, who's left?

Nurevis is not sure what sound he has just made, whether it contained words or not. Tethimar says, "If you scream, our servants will come to see." This is a threat and not an escape route. How perfectly clear some matters are now. The servants like the scent hounds, who sit back and watch, their part of the work finished, while the hunters and the dogs with studded collars take down the prey. 

Wolves have teeth and deer have hooves and even the little foxes can snap at their hunters. Nurevis has pretty words and pretty clothing and a father stupid enough to stage an unsuccessful coup, and none of these keep him from being dragged from the wall to the table, and shoved over the top. His elbow knocks a cup to the floor, metheglin spreading through the carpet, and the taste of it fills his mouth, mixed in with all of his not screaming. Nurevis is not screaming, not when Tethimar pulls his pretty clothes aside, and not when Tethimar shoves inside him.

He sees stars. Like the time he fell from his pony, so many years ago, and cracked his head on a fence post. His groom and his tutor came running, but he didn't cry then, did he? Despite all the blood pouring across his face, while the false stars sparked white and gold in his vision. His hands grip at tablecloth and find no purchase there, and he cannot see anything clearly.

"My hunting bitches fight their suitors better in their heats than thou dost," Tethimar says.

Nurevis nearly laughs. He can feel the sound bubbling up in his throat, and he snaps his teeth shut against it, because if he laughs he will scream. His fingers are still scrabbling against the tablecloth at every new spike of pain, but he is still not screaming. How sensible of him. Someone ought to be proud of his restraint, under the circumstances.

Imagine, someone being proud of _him_ , instead of merely finding him useful.

Tethimar throws him to the floor after finishing. That sums up the man: never satisfied with a single point of cruelty. Nurevis sits there, one hand laid in the metheglin-damp carpet, and keeps his teeth clenched shut. Better than the alternative.

"What do you think would happen," Tethimar asks, as if he is playing the role of tutor, "if you told anyone?"

Nurevis finds his voice. "Why would we do that?"

Someone ought to be proud of how steadily he said that. No one will be. He has that echoing in his head, _No one, no one, no one at all,_ on the long walk back to the apartments that no longer belong to his father.

Nothing belongs to his father anymore.

Perhaps that was the point Tethimar was making, but Nurevis doubts it. The man does not seem inclined towards subtlety, or making any point implicitly. He would make a fine villain for an opera, where every wicked deed is detailed in song.

When Nurevis walks into the receiving room, his uncle's secretary is there. A narrow man of narrow tastes, who Nurevis has avoided as much as possible, and who says, "The viscount is expecting you."

Nurevis would like to say that the viscount can expect him in the afterlife for all he cares. He keeps that behind his teeth, with everything else, and instead goes to the study to be lectured by his uncle.

"You reek of metheglin," Chavel says.

"To be sure," says Nurevis.

"If you have kept some doxy hidden away," Chavel says, "you must dismiss her, or we will perform this chore for you." How old he looks, how weary, how resolute. "Not one more visit, do you hear? Nor any further use of those clothes. They have already been accounted for to the auctioneer."

Nurevis is on the edge of another one of those responses that will turn this into shouting. Why not? What more can his uncle do to him, than has already been done?

And yet, this morning, Nurevis would have said the same. What more could be done to him? Hadn't the worst already arrived?

No. It can be worse. It can always be worse.

"To be sure," Nurevis says, to every command his uncle gives. "Certainly. To be sure."

#

He sends a letter to Bremet the next morning. Sealed with a thumbprint, so that no one can recognize the mark of his signet ring on the wax and refuse the letter on that account.

The letter is returned before noon. Opened, and clumsily resealed, as if to deny anyone might have read its contents. 

Nurevis goes to his room, and takes out one of the bottles he hid away before the winnowing began. There are increasingly few places to hide anything, but he has lived in these apartments long enough to know of places. His favorite earrings are tucked away in the same place. It is not unlike the small rebellions he used to make against his father: only the ones his father never noticed. There are no receipts, no household accounts, for much of what Nurevis owns (used to own, is no longer accounted the owner of) and so Chavel can only sell what he can find. Of course, he will find most of it. Most.

When Nurevis opens the bottle, the scent of metheglin fills the room. He is drowning in the stench of it. He can feel it on his palms, tacky and clinging, and taste it in his mouth, and he is still not screaming.

No one would have reason to admire his restraint anymore. He is simply not screaming, as a man should not.

Nurevis seals the bottle again. He opens a door to one of the servant corridors, and carries all his hidden bottles through that narrow space, past door after door, and then sets them down on the floor there. Someone might know where those came from, but they are no longer anywhere near him.

So that's all as it should be. One more matter dealt with. One more small rebellion against his uncle, who will never notice it, not when he's busy criticizing Nurevis for imaginary failings.

It is amazing what his uncle doesn't notice.

#

A servant in Tethimada livery arrives with an invitation to dinner. The same man, the same wording, and for a moment Nurevis cannot tell what day it is, or if anything has happened at all.

It did happen. This is only a new sort of mockery.

"Please tell your master," he says to the servant, "that we must decline the pleasure of his company this evening, as we have pressing house matters to attend to."

#

When he wakes up in the middle of the night, he thinks for a moment that they mean to arrest him again, and hand him over to Tethimar.

It's only a dream.

#

All his fashionable clothes are gone, and all his suitable but unfashionable clothes are gone, and all he has left, he would have scorned to dress his valet in. His earrings are gone and his rings are gone. The mirror that hung in his bedroom is gone, sold separately from its frame. His father is gone, hidden in the Nevennamire like another bottle of metheglin, until the trial occurs. His horse and groom are gone, and Nurevis wishes they had gone together, riding away into the night like characters from a story. They could have disappeared with his books, his perfumes, his beads, his coats, his best paper for invitations and his friends. Someone worthwhile would have gotten use of it all, then.

He entertains himself for a morning with the idea of writing letters of introduction. Old enemy of mine, please accept an introduction to a former friend, as the two of you have something in common now.

It is not entertainment. He is near weeping. It is a cold, sharp piece of mockery to keep him distracted from all the absences in the world around him, like biting his own tongue to keep from screaming.

The only person who has not vanished on him is his uncle. Chavel sends him a stack of papers, by way of the secretary, with instructions to sort through the accounts and mark out whichever expenses were for his own accoutrements and not his father's. If the viscount only walked into the room and asked, "What have you been doing all this time?" Nurevis is sure he would say everything at once.

The viscount does not walk in and ask. Nurevis does not say a word to anyone. He goes through the accounts and marks two thirds of the items as his own expense. That dinner, that pair of shoes, that horse, that set of dishes, yes, it was all mine, why do you ask?

His uncle does not ask. His uncle sends the papers back with instructions to do it again, and properly. The only rebellion that ever succeeds is the one no one notices. Someone should have told Chavar that.

#

It is a week to Winternight. Nurevis has nothing to wear to the ball. He would not wish to attend if he had anything to wear. He would not be allowed if he wished to attend. He has begun sending letters to all his friends. (All the people who are his friends. All the people who were his friends. All the people who might have been his friends, though he is no longer certain of even that.) There is a certain novelty in discovering how quickly the letters are returned by each. Some of the letters are not returned, and he is not so stupid as to take any comfort from that variation.

Tethimar's servant arrives again. "Dach'osmer Eshevis Tethimar would so appreciate your company this evening," the man says. Nothing has been written down this time. Perhaps even Tethimar has learned the wisdom of not visibly associating with the Chavada in any way at all.

"We must send our regrets," Nurevis says. "Our uncle has already claimed our presence this evening." He smiles flatly at the man.

Every bite of dinner tastes like metheglin.

#

The Tethimada servant returns twice, on subsequent days. Nurevis has become quite practiced at meeting that sneer with court manners. He varies the phrases he uses to reject the invitations, and wonders how long it will amuse Tethimar to continue sending them.

Chavel asks over dinner, on the third day, "What friend of yours persists like this, against every sign that the advances are unwelcome? Are they all fools?"

"No," Nurevis says. "Only the more entertaining ones." His hands lie on his knees beneath the table, where no one can see them shaking. He has not been eating much lately.

His uncle frowns at him across the table. "You will discover a better class of companion, when you have been removed from court."

"The better classes of companions know better than to be classed with us," Nurevis says lightly.

"Mind your tongue," Chavel says, "unless you wish to be taught how."

His uncle holds all the future in his fist. Nurevis ducks his head as if he is a meek and obedient nephew, and wishes the man would hit him. That would be easier.

#

Nurevis wonders if he will be relegated, if his father is executed. He has been cleared of all charges, and he will never be clear of suspicion.

He wonders if relegation would be better or worse than following his uncle home.

#

There is one day left before the Winternight Ball. The court is in such an uproar over preparations, associated activities, the Great Avar's visit, that the sound penetrates the closed doors of the Chavada apartments. Nurevis sits in the receiving room on the last chair available to him there and sorts through a stack of accounts. His father kept wretched accounts, and he kept almost no accounts at all. The funds were available when he needed them.

Now no funds are available, which is in some ways equally simple.

He is not surprised, only weary, when that same servant of Tethimar arrives with a verbal invitation to dinner.

"We have other engagements," Nurevis says. He would like to go to his bedroom and drink wine until he can't see the opposite wall, and he would walk away from the man to do exactly that if he had the wine, or freedom from his uncle's oversight.

The servant does not leave. Instead, he intimates that it would be unwise to refuse. That there are glorious prospects ahead for the evening. That an invitation from Dach'osmer Tethimar should flatter the recipient, as so many would like to be invited and so few are thus privileged.

"Our sincerest regrets," Nurevis says, "but we cannot see him this evening." He repeats this to everything said until the servant leaves.

Less than an hour later, the servant is back. He bows deeply to Nurevis, and says, "Dach'osmer regrets to inform you that if you cannot meet with him this evening, he will have no choice but to discuss with the Untheileneise Guard certain remarks you made in his presence regarding His Serenity and recent political events."

The effrontery is breath-taking. It is appalling and ridiculous at once. Even if anything impolitic had been said at that table, there would be no proof of it. Nurevis feels that if a duke's son wishes to engage in blackmail, there ought to be blackmail material of some sort, not a direct threat of telling lies.

Nearly a month, now, since the arrests, and the emperor has not sent one word, however indirect, to show favor or disfavor. Not one word. And everyone knows that the emperor must make a more serious peace with the Tethimada and their allies soon. The emperor's sister is all but promised to that man.

Who does Nurevis have to protect him now? His uncle? What would his uncle believe of him, if Tethimar gave some account of that evening's absence that implied treason? Perhaps Tethimar believes the lies already. The son is owed what the father held. As true for guilt as anything else.

However bad the moment is, it can become worse. Nurevis doesn't doubt that anymore.

"We are puzzled as to what he means by this," he says, "but if he finds our presence so necessary, we will see him this evening."

"Now," the servant says, with a mockery of a bow, "would suffice."

"Yes," Nurevis says. "Certainly," Nurevis says. "Now," Nurevis says, and follows the man away, leaving the papers on the chair.

#

Nurevis and Tethimar are not dressed much alike anymore. This is what Nurevis thinks of, rather than many other things. He considers Tethimar's clothing and jewelry, hairstyle and furniture. A month is not enough time for any of the fashions to shift considerably. Give it another year.

Tonight there is no dinner laid out. Certain pretenses are gone. Perhaps the number of lies involved in any meeting with Tethimar must remain constant, and so the extortion has taken the place of the meal.

"What do you think you are owed?" Tethimar asks. His color is strange, as if he came to this meeting directly from a brisk ride, and his eyes are very bright. Perhaps he has been drinking. He does not sit, but paces the length of the room.

"Owed by whom?" Nurevis asks, when it becomes clear that he is expected to respond.

"By those who took everything from you," Tethimar says. "What would you do to regain what was stolen from you? Wouldn't you do everything in your power?"

Nurevis looks at his hands, bare of all rings but the signet. He has the power to say yes to his uncle and yes to this man and not a word to either of them when they don't want words from him. Such power, this, as the scullery boys and gardeners have. "Imagine," he says, "that you have been given six bottles of wine, and then you are told one is poisoned. Surely you would pour the good wine out after the bad, just to be sure."

Tethimar grabs his collar. Nothing more than that. They are face to face, or nearly so; Tethimar is taller, broader, burning with some inner fire from an unknown cause. "No riddles today. Tell us what you would do to fix everything."

Nurevis would laugh in the man's face, if he thought he could do that and leave the room alive. "Nothing," he says. "There is nothing we can do."

"Little fool." Tethimar says this with something so near affection that Nurevis jerks backward. There is nowhere to go, of course. Not with the hands on his clothes, so very close to his throat. "Allow us to enlighten you. It is within your power to regain what you have lost, and more besides. All you must do is perform one simple task on our behalf."

A month ago, Nurevis would have asked after the task, bright and careless in all his words, then reported the conversation to his father afterward. One of the many little tasks he performed for his father, and for his house by extension. Even gossip could be useful to the Chancellor, if sorted through by someone clever enough, who knew how to coax the most interesting tidbits from the people around him. It was always more useful to know what people thought than to continue in ignorance.

"No," Nurevis says.

Tethimar pulls him in closer. There is no trace of liquor on Tethimar's breath. "You do not understand what you stand to gain, or what you stand to lose. If you do not support me now--"

"No," Nurevis says.

Tethimar punches him in the gut. Nurevis can feel each ring on that hand as an individual point of contact through the thin fabric he wears, and he doubles over, breathless all over again. (How sensible, a part of him observes, to only strike him where the bruises won't show. The task is likely of a sort where bruises on the face would raise questions.) He has not caught his breath back when Tethimar grabs his hair and shoves him down onto his knees.

"We will only ask thee once more," Tethimar says. "A wise man would discover what was required of him, before dooming himself."

Nurevis stares at the dry carpet. He can taste metheglin like a film on the back of his teeth. "No," he says. It is exactly as difficult to say as the first time, and exactly as easy.

Tethimar kicks him in the side.

The rest proceeds much as before. All the differences are minor. Nurevis digs his fingernails into the carpet. He closes his eyes. When his teeth clenched together are no longer enough to keep himself quiet, he bites his tongue until it bleeds. The blood has no sickly sweet honey taste to it, but an honest sort of copper. With his eyes closed, he can think of the fall from his pony, the men running to help him up, the imaginary stars sparkling across his vision. His mother was still alive, that summer. It was a good year.

Tethimar calls him a great many things. Nurevis stopped listening some time ago. He spits blood out on the carpet, at the end.

"You will regret this," Tethimar says hoarsely. "Very soon."

There is a pithy response to be made here. Nurevis slinks away in silence, with his bloody tongue and bruised skin and the rest of the pain, like a whipped dog too surly to lick its master's hands afterward. He can think of worse things to be compared to.

Give him a moment, and he'll think of them.

#

Nurevis is in bed when the distant revelry of the ball changes abruptly to a different sort of noise. He has been lying awake for hours. Sleeping has come with difficulty of late, and given the dreams, he has not been eager to seek it out. The tenor of the commotion is, after a moment, familiar.

He dresses himself in the dark room, and wonders if he will be arrested again.

#

Viscount Chavel is too grim a man to have hysterics. Instead he sends his secretary out for news of what is happening, again and again, until the muddled report comes back that there has been yet another attempt at a coup.

Nurevis thinks to himself, _We used to have a different sort of excitement in court at this time of night,_ and knows better than to say it out loud.

Chavel sends message after message, protesting his own innocence. Nurevis sees some of these as they are written, and none of them mention him by name, association, or even implication. He might as well have ceased to exist once again. Certainly his uncle wishes to disassociate himself as much as possible from anyone tainted with his brother's treason.

They are all three of them, uncle and nephew and secretary, thin-scraped with lack of sleep and anxiety, when a message comes back from the emperor. His Serenity Edrehasivar VII, Emperor of the Elflands, assures Viscount Chavel that no one doubts his innocence.

There is still no mention of Nurevis.

He goes back to bed, and lies awake, and tries to be glad that no one has named him in any correspondence at all.

#

It is the hour at which Nurevis would be eating breakfast with his uncle. He still has not fallen asleep.

And he thinks, quite suddenly, that now he knows what he would have done, if his father had tried to enlist him in the conspiracy against the emperor.

In more pleasant circumstances, this sudden certainty would send him into a dreamless sleep. Instead, he dozes fitfully for hours, and spends the afternoon being surly and recalcitrant around his uncle.

#

They do get the news that Tethimar tried to kill the emperor; that the emperor's nohecharei killed Tethimar; that all the Tethimada will be dragged low by this crime; that many other things follow from this, regarding conspiracies and murders and attempted murders and plots, but Nurevis has lost his appetite for politics and gossip both. He pays little attention to the details.

He thinks, _Tethimar is dead._

_Good._

It would be more satisfying if he could attach an emotion to that, or even a full sentence. A conclusion. A sense that matters have been settled. He cannot. He is as weary as his uncle, and all he can think for days is, _Tethimar is dead. Good._

#

It does not get worse, for days.

But he knows that worse is always a possibility.

#

When his uncle sends him to tell the emperor that they are ready to leave, Nurevis knows it is a sort of punishment. No doubt there will be more of these punishments, and a variety of them, when they have reached the Chavada holdings. He cannot even think of that now.

Edrehasivar looks exactly as he did when Nurevis first met him: overwhelmed by the pomp of his office and the people who surround him. Edrehasivar looks nothing like he did when Nurevis first met him: he is not a gawky boy desperate for a conversation that won't fluster him, but an emperor who has survived two attempts to remove him. His nohecharei are expressionless and terrifying.

"We are sorry," the emperor tells him.

It is an impossible thing for an emperor to declare to a disgraced subject whose father plotted against the crown, and it has been said nonetheless.

It doesn't fix anything.

Nurevis does not say, _If our father had asked us to conspire against you, we would have said no._ That can't change anything now. It is one more private matter to carry away with him from court.

#

Chavar is placed in a separate carriage from anyone else, with guards to watch him. Nurevis leaves in the same carriage as his uncle, the two of them facing each other in a small, dark space. And even so, he can see how the viscount grows younger and brighter with every mile the horses take them from court.

His uncle will never be young, or bright. But there is a possibility that they could deal with each other more kindly without the knowledge of everything that Chavar did resting in the eyes of each courtier or servant they pass. At a great distance from court, perhaps his uncle is a good man.

Chavel says, when they have left the bounds of Cetho, and nothing but fields surrounds the road, "That place destroyed him. He never should have left home."

"He was always an ambitious man," Nurevis says. He offers this agreement like an open hand.

Nothing more is said in that carriage for hours.

The fields pass by the windows, the trees pass by the windows, and Nurevis stares at them all with equal uncertainty. Perhaps he will find a place for himself in his uncle's household. Perhaps he will not. However bad this is, it can always get worse.


End file.
